Posts Tagged ‘New York’

“Code: Green” (Full Story)

September 13, 2017


February 10th, 2015.

Manhattan, New York.

7:01 p.m.

“Doctor Banner?” Jarvis said in his smooth, mechanized voice.

Bruce looked up from a large electron microscope. He stood in the main research lab of Avengers Tower, his new home. During his brief sojourn here, Bruce has grown quite fond of the prim, British-sounding A.I. program, and now sensed a tone of hesitance, yet urgency in his inflection.


“I’ve just received a video chat request for you.”

“Me?” Bruce stepped away from the counter and walked toward the flat screen monitor which dominated the far wall. “From who?”

“Doctor Elizabeth Ross.”

Bruce sighed. For an instant, his eyes flashed a deep emerald green—which might’ve been a trick of the light. “Put her through,” he said, pulling his glasses from his lab coat.

“One moment.”

The screen, which had been showing a muted CNN newsfeed, flickered. Bruce slid his trembling hands into his pockets and did his best to look composed. But deep inside, the tormented scientist felt anything but.

My God. It’s been seven years since that night in Harlem. What could she possibly have to say?

A beautiful, dark-haired woman appeared. Sad but intent, Betty’s eyes bore the unmistakable puffiness of recent tears. Seeing her again, even on a video screen, recalled deep feelings of loss and regret.

And fading love.

She’s still gorgeous…

Behind Betty, a stark white wall loomed, giving Bruce the idea that she’d called him from a clinical environment.

Oh, please tell me she’s not sick!

When the visual feed connected on her end, Betty brightened. The picture shook as she moved; filming herself with her phone.


“Yeah, Betty. I’m here. What’s going on?”

Betty’s smile held a moment longer, as if the very sight of Bruce pleased her. Then it faded, replaced by an expression of utter sorrow.

“It’s Dad. They think he’s had another heart attack.”

Bruce stiffened. “That’s terrible!”

“I know. They’re running tests on him right now…”

Bruce gazed at the screen, at the woman he used to love more than anything. The first time General Ross had suffered a heart attack, he’d been in Calcutta, helping the local peasants. That had been before the Chitauri invasion, before The Avengers. Before he’d met Natasha.

Before a lot of things.

“I need to see you, Bruce.”

The words, unexpected yet unsurprising, cut into his heart like a cold knife, and Bruce felt his breath leave in a rush. “I can’t,” he said, and shook his head.

“You can, though. I’m in D.C., at Med Star Hospital. That’s not that far.”

She can’t be serious…

“Betty, I can’t go to the hospital. There’ll be security everywhere. Not to mention that if your dad gets wind of me being anywhere near him, he’ll fly into a serious rage. Someone could get hurt.”

Betty gave Bruce her stern, I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer look, which he knew quite well. “We can meet up at Meridian Hill Park. Lots of wide open space. No one will bother us.”

“That’s a sound plan, Doctor,” Jarvis said. “I can provide a schematic of the park if you’d like.”

Chuckling, Bruce again shook his head.

Betty’s face wrinkled with annoyance. “Who was that?”

“That’s Jarvis. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s an A.I. program Tony uses to keep his life in order. He runs everything.”

“Quite correct, Doctor Banner. My apologies for interrupting, Doctor Ross.”

“Oh.” Betty’s face softened. “That’s okay, Jarvis.”

“How did you know I was here?” Bruce asked.

“Are you kidding? Since the collapse of S.H.E.I.L.D., and with The Avengers hunting down Hydra, the news has been all over you guys. It’s certainly no secret where your headquarters are.”

“Right.” Bruce looked at the floor.

I can’t do this.

“Bruce…will you come? Please?

A silent moment passed. Bruce shut his eyes. Tony had left on a business conference with Pepper. Steve had gone to visit Peggy. Thor had taken Jane to dinner. Clint had disappeared. Which left just him and Natasha and Jarvis.

Please don’t beg, Betty.

Bruce thought of Natasha. Her long, lean body. Her dark red hair. Her stoic, mischievous gaze. He pictured her in the gym, sweaty and intense. She wouldn’t want him to go, either—for a variety of reasons.

“Please come, Bruce. We can just talk.”

Seven years, Betty.

But in his heart, Bruce knew that he had to go—for a variety of reasons. “Alright,” he said, looking up. “I’ll come.”

“Thank you, Bruce.” Betty smiled a hopeful smile. “See you soon.”

Bruce nodded. “Yeah… see you soon.”

Betty’s smiling face disappeared. The screen remained blank and dark.


“I’ve already taken the liberty, Doctor. A Quinjet will be waiting on the roof. I’ll notify Agent Romanoff once we’re in the air to simplify matters.”

Taking off his lab coat, Bruce smirked.

Good old Jarvis; he thought of everything.


 “Approaching Meridian Hill Park, Doctor Banner.

Bruce didn’t respond. The Quinjet could’ve made the trip in under five minutes, but Bruce had instructed Jarvis to take it slow. Thus, for the last half hour Bruce had been staring through the side window, reflecting on his tumultuous relationship with Betty. Their first meeting. Their first date. Working on the gamma project together. The experiment which had ruined his life. Her father’s rage, which had sparked a manhunt and forced him to live as a fugitive for several years.

All just water under the bridge now.

Yeah. Deep, dark water…and a very shaky bridge.

“I’ve located Doctor Ross. She’s standing at the base of that splendid cascade fountain.”

Bruce turned to the control panel. His face looked taught, pensive.

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

“My pleasure, Doctor Banner. Starting our descent.”

Sighing, Bruce settled back. Through the front window, he saw a large water garden, lit by intermittent lamps, looming out of the darkness. The Quinjet whispered over its calm surface. Bruce had never been here, and marveled at the thirteen-tiered fountain, also lit up against the darkness. Sure enough, at the base, he saw a lone figure with dark hair.


The Quinjet slowed and stopped, hovering over the shallow reservoir. Bruce removed his glasses, unstrapped himself, then walked to the back. The rear hatch opened with a loud hiss, and a ramp extended to the walkway. Bruce, clad in a black sweater and jeans, strode down the ramp with a forced air of nonchalance. His lips twitched. His hands curled into fists, swinging at his sides.

“Bruce!” Betty exclaimed, rushing toward him.

“Hello, Betty.”

She met him halfway, threw her arms around him. Bruce stiffened against her, but returned the gesture. Through her thick parka, through her mittens, he felt deep, uncompromising warmth.

“How are you?”

“Better now!”

Bruce smiled. Her cheek felt good pressed against his. Her hair smelled of fresh berries. “Good. How’s your father?”

Betty released him, stepped back. “Dad’s doing okay,” she replied, wiping her eyes with her mittens. “The doctor thinks it was just acute indigestion.”

“That’s encouraging.”

Sniffing, Betty smiled. Her cheeks had reddened, like the tip of her nose. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Yeah. It’s good to see you, too.”

“You look like you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

Bruce shrugged. “Stark built a hell of a gym for us.”

“I can’t imagine what it’s like living in Avenger’s Tower, Bruce.”

“It’s luxurious. Don’t really feel at home there yet.”

Come on, Betty. Get to the point.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking…” Betty stepped toward him, hesitant yet eager. “Things are different, so maybe they can be different between us.”

“How do you mean?”

“Come on, Bruce. You’re an Avenger now. A hero. Practically sanctioned by the government. That means…”

What?” Bruce looked hard into her eyes. Imploring. Knowing what she meant, but demanding that she come out and say it. “What does it mean, Betty?”

Betty’s forehead wrinkled. “No one thinks you’re a monster anymore…”

Bruce chuckled, walked to the edge of the water garden. The cool, calm surface rippled in the light breeze.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, Betty. You and I both know the truth.”

“You and I both know that we love each other…don’t we?”

Bruce closed his eyes. He envisioned Natasha watching him; arms crossed, awaiting his answer.

God, this is the last thing I need right now.

“Your father…he still believes I’m a monster, regardless. He’d never allow it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Has he told you differently?”

“Well, no…I mean, not exactly.”

Bruce opened his eyes, turned to Betty with an incredulous look.

Is she kidding?

“But after his heart attack,” Betty continued, “he’s been a changed man. He’s nowhere near as angry as he used to be.”

“Betty. If he knew you were here talking to me, this place would already be surrounded with heavy artillery.”

“No, Bruce.” Betty shook her head. “It wouldn’t. I know it would—”

“Uh, guys?” a new voice called. Raspy. Sultry. Businesslike. “Hate to break up the reunion, but I’ve got bad news.”

Bruce and Betty turned toward the Quinjet. There, at the top of the ramp, stood Natasha Romanoff; left hand resting on the bulkhead, right hand resting on her cocked hip. Her eyes looked severe, but a slight grin played upon her lips.

“Jarvis says there’s something headed this way, fast. A ship of some kind, and it seems hostile.”

Bruce’s right hand leapt to his forehead. “Natasha! What’re you doing here?”

Natasha’s gaze never left Betty. “Looks like I’m saving your ass from an unnecessary Code: Green.”

“Were you on the ship the whole time?”

“Yep. Just watching out for my impetuous partner.”

Betty turned to Bruce. “What’s a Code: Green?”

“Uh…” Bruce looked at Betty, held out his hands. “It’s when the Other Guy is needed for a mission.”

“Oh.” Betty turned back to Natasha. Vapor streamed from her nose as she appraised the black-clad woman. “You’re Black Widow, right?”

“That’s right, Doctor Ross. And right now we’ve gotta be going. Say goodbye, Bruce.”

Bruce put his right hand on Betty’s shoulder, extended his left toward Natasha. “Look, I just need a minute here.”

“And I’m telling you we don’t have it. We need to get airborne, now!

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Look, bring Ross if you want, but hurry!

Shivering, Betty looked skyward. “Maybe you should do as she says, Bruce. But I’ve gotta stay here with Dad.”

What the hell is going on here?

Confused and annoyed, Bruce looked at Betty. “I’m sorry. This is crazy. Maybe we could talk another time?”

“Come on, Bruce!” Natasha’s voice now sounded as intense as her gaze felt. Eyes wide, she removed the gun holstered on her right thigh. “We’re safer in the air!”

“Right, Natasha.” Looking into Betty’s sad, startled eyes, Bruce felt an inner tug. Whatever still existed between them hadn’t been resolved, and might never be. “Sorry, Betty, I’ve gotta go.”

Betty tried to smile, but failed. “I know, Bruce. It’s okay.”

Bruce turned from Betty. Toward the Quinjet. Toward Natasha. Frustration filled his heart, and he had to remind himself to take a deep breath, lest his blood pressure get too high.

This is what I get for trying to sneak off. Now Natasha’s gonna be angry, and I’ll have to explain. Never had an assassin of her caliber mad at me before. Bet that won’t be fun. She probably makes the Other Guy look like a pussycat. Might need to call a Code: Green just to save myse—

MISTER GREEN, I PRESUME!” a sudden, amplified voice shouted.

Bruce froze. He, Betty, and Natasha all looked up as a bright spotlight fell upon them.


Squinting, shielding his eyes, Bruce gazed into the sky. Something large and ovular hovered above them, and for a panicked moment he thought the Chitauri had returned. But that couldn’t be it. Not without another portal. And besides, the tyrannical voice had called him Mr. Green—

The name I used when I was on the run…

“Who are you and what do you want?”


“Bruce, I’m scared!” Betty whispered.

“You know this maniac?” Natasha said, shielding her eyes with one hand while aiming her gun with the other.

Bruce grit his teeth.

No questions, damnit! Just let me think!

“Doctor Sterns? Is that you?”


“I thought Blonsky killed Sterns,” Betty whispered.

“Me, too,” Bruce replied. He remembered all too well the night Sterns had tried to help cure him, and the disaster which followed when Emile Blonsky, a high-strung special forces soldier, somehow became a superpowered Abomination, waging a one-monster war on New York City.

And he got that way because of my DNA. Now Sterns must be infected, too!

Natasha stepped off the ramp, cocked the hammer on her gun. “Whoever you are, listen to me very carefully. My name is Agent Romanoff of The Avengers. You’re creating a potentially disastrous situation here. You need to stand down.”

Betty jerked toward Natasha. Still staring up, Bruce’s jaw fell.


“Your play, Bruce,” Natasha said.

Betty moaned. “Bruce, you can’t! He wants the power of—”

“I know what he wants,” Bruce interrupted. Then, to the ship, “What If I refuse? What, then?”

A moment passed. Dim red lights flickered on the ship’s underbelly. A loud whirring sound cut through the air.


Girlfriends? Bruce bristled at the implication.

“I’m not his girlfriend!” Natasha yelled.

“Stay calm, Bruce!” Betty said.

“I’m trying, Betty.” Taking slow, measured breaths, the angry scientist walked to the center of the spotlight. “No, Sterns. No way I’m giving you anymore of my blood. The cops’ll be swarming all over this park in a minute, and you’re gonna end up in the Vault with Blonsky.”


“That’s right!”


“I think not,” Jarvis said from the Quinjet. Then the ramp slid inward, and the rear hatch hissed shut. The downward-facing jets roared to life as the plane rose up, turning to face the strange ship in the sky.

“Good job, Jarvis!” Bruce called.

“Evens the playing field, doesn’t it?” Natasha said.


“My pleasure,” Jarvis replied, and two red beams shot from the Quinjet’s underbelly. The ship lit up with a dark red sheen which faded, and from within came the sound of maniacal laughter:


With a roar of its own, the ship flew forward, smashing into the Quinjet—


Betty screamed.

“Whoa!” Bruce said.

“Take cover!” Natasha yelled as she ran toward Bruce and Betty, pushing them toward the sheer granite wall of the fountain.

More laughter filled the night sky as the Quinjet sputtered and shook. Jarvis fired another repulsar blast which dissipated around the ship, and reversed engines.

“Sir, it appears that we’re at an impasse,” Jarvis said. “We cannot damage each other significantly enough to gain the upper hand. But I have alerted the nearby authorities.”


Another whirring sound sliced the air. Bruce’s eyes widened as he saw six glowing orbs descend from the ship. They dropped like falling bombs, then turned and swarmed in his direction. As they neared, he saw that they looked like giant eyes with neon red pupils, and each of them had four metallic tentacles slithering at its side.

“Drones!” Natasha cried. “Get down!”

Bruce stepped in front of Betty, who wrapped her arms around his waist. Natasha rolled forward, coming up on one knee, and fired two shots into the air.


A bullet bounced off of the closest drone, and it swerved—but didn’t die. Natasha rose, leapt into the air with a spinning kick which connected on another drone—


—knocking it away, but not disabling it.

Jarvis fired another blast which faded around the ship’s force field.


“Damn!” Natasha screamed. Two drones had descended upon her, their tentacles wrapped around her arms and holding her in place. The rest flew toward Bruce and Betty,

“You won’t get away with this, Sterns!”


Four drones now hovered around Bruce. Breathing deep, the scientist raised his fists. Behind him, Betty whimpered.

“Careful, Bruce!”

Bruce stepped forward. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sterns!”


The drones swooped in. Bruce swung and missed as they dipped and dodged his fists. Two of them skirted around him and latched onto Betty. She shrieked, and Bruce spun on his heels.


Another blast from the Quinjet. This time, the ship faltered—


—and lurched forward. Intending to fly beneath the ship, the Quinjet dipped, but not before the ship crashed into the cockpit—


—driving it backward and down into the shallow water.


Facing Betty, Bruce began to shake with rage. The drones held her arms just as the other two held Natasha’s, and two more hovered at his sides, waiting. He felt powerless, even as the beast within began to stir.

But if I let it out, I could level D.C. What if I end up smashing the White House?


“NO!” Betty screamed.

“Bruce,” Natasha said. “Code: Green.”

Bruce sighed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s the only way. I’ll provide the lullaby.”

Jaw hanging, Betty’s gaze flicked from Bruce to Natasha, Natasha to Bruce. Detesting the fear and pain in her eyes, Bruce raised his arms.

“Fine. Take your sample, Sterns.”


Yeah, Sterns. We’ll see…

Bruce closed his eyes. They ached from the glare of the light. Sirens arose in the distance as he waited. A moment later, he felt metallic coils slithering around his biceps; cold from the night air. He heard Betty breathe a sigh of relief and knew that she’d been let go. Natasha, too, by the sound of the cocking gun behind him.

She wouldn’t need it.

“Betty!” Natasha called. “Run to me!”

Bruce smiled as he heard Betty’s shoes slapping against the concrete. Now, he could let loose.


The drones tightened their grip, began to rise. Bruce planted himself, allowing the rage brimming in his heart to overflow.

I don’t think so, Sterns!

When Bruce willed the change, it happened much faster and with far less pain than when he tried to resist. Every molecule in his body began to vibrate. Numbing cold shot through him as his bones began to thicken and grow. His heart pounded. His veins pulsed. Blood flooded into expanding muscle tissue.

Then it came.

The moment when it felt as if a bomb had gone off in the center of his brain.

The moment where Banner ended and the Other Guy began.


An inhuman roar echoed throughout Meridian Hill Park, alerting all within earshot that something monstrous loomed by the vaunted cascade fountain. And there, beneath the spotlight of the ship, stood the mighty Hulk. Twelve feet tall, emerald-skinned, and layered with muscle. Veins bulged from his neck and forearms as he curled his hands into massive fists. The remnants of Banner’s clothing lay at his bare feet. Something had tried to hurt his friends, and fury lived in his every breath. He wanted to rend, he wanted to destroy.

He wanted to smash.

Hulk looked at the ocular-shaped drones with slithering tentacles, and decided to smash them first.


The spotlight intensified; almost like looking at the sun. Pain stabbed at Hulk’s eyes, making him flinch. He snarled, blinded, and swiped at the air. Maniacal laughter filled his ears, and he dropped into a crouch, forgetting the drones, ready to leap at the bright thing in the sky.

Then another blast came, direct from the ship.

A thin shriek, as of metal grating against metal, filled Hulk’s ears. Augmented to a torturous decibel, the sonic beam would’ve ruptured the eardrums of any mortal, but Hulk withstood it. Not without extreme pain, though. It didn’t just sound like scraping metal, it felt like scraping metal. Inside his ears, inside his brain. Combined with the blazing, blinding light, Hulk felt assaulted on all sides. Miserable. Unable to fight.

Eyes shut, hands clamped over his ears, Hulk sank to one knee; hunched over, growling, shaking, trying to escape the unbearable pain. The merciless soundwaves rippled over his flesh, rattling him as if someone had reached into his body, grabbed his spine, and shook it hard.


Another roar filled Meridian Hill Park. Hulk hated the bright light. Hulk hated the shrieking sound. Hulk hated the dumb ship in the sky. And, most of all, Hulk hated the voice calling out to him.

“Puny voice thinks it’s strong! But Hulk is stronger! HULK IS STRONGEST ONE THERE IS!”


Head bowed, Hulk slit his bloodshot eyes. The drones had surrounded him, forming a ring of unblinking, neon pupils against the white glow. He leapt, snarling, and grabbed two; one in each powerful hand. The drones crumpled like aluminum cans, then Hulk threw them as hard as he could upward and into the light.


Again, Hulk roared—from pain, this time. His hands flew back to his unprotected ears as he shut his eyes. “Not Banner!” he growled, tensing his legs.


The green giant sprang up with sudden vigor, flying straight into the air. Toward the ship. Toward the light. Toward the horrid noise, which grew ever louder, ever more painful as he approached. The sonic ripples even served to slow him somewhat.


Using himself as a battering ram, Hulk slammed into the ship. He felt the force field, the steel underbelly fold like cardboard against him, then, aided by the sonic blast, gravity yanked him back.

Being that close to the sound overwhelmed him.



Hulk landed on his knees, causing a small earthquake which sloshed the dark water behind him. Fault lines spread through the concrete from the point of impact. The fall didn’t hurt, though. The sound did, even as it faded and everything went quiet. He felt sudden moisture on his palms, and understood that blood now dripped from his ears. His soundless ears.


Still, Hulk felt the shockwaves slamming into him, and bent forward. The pain in his head increased tenfold; a sledgehammer whacking his brain over and over. For the first time, Hulk felt utter confusion. He raged, but his rage couldn’t stop this particular pain. Then, taking advantage of his fallen posture, two steel tentacles slithered around his neck and began to constrict. Two more slithered around from behind. The drones, trying to choke him in tandem.


Collapsing, Hulk barrel-rolled to his right, but the pounding shockwaves followed, hammering him into the cement.


A sudden gust of wind passed over him. Cold liquid sprayed his side. Again, Hulk rolled, and this time, the sonic hammering lessened. Shielding his face with bloody hands, Hulk slit his eyes to see a big, black shape rising from the water. The Quinjet, angled toward the ship, and from its two cannons came shimmering red beams. Hulk couldn’t bear to look up, but a moment later, the light faded…the shockwaves subsided.

Pounding stop, but Hulk still can’t hear!

The beast looked up to see two more beams streak from the Quinjet into the ship’s exposed underbelly. A soundless explosion lit up the night sky, and the sight emboldened him to rise.


His head still throbbed. His eyes still hadn’t focused. He felt tired. He felt weak. But the rage still burned, an urge to destroy still lived. So he ripped the drones from his neck and crushed them into metallic dust. The other two flew toward him and he swatted them down like gnats. He glared up at the fiery ship as it wobbled and began to descend. The Quinjet’s engines turned downward, hovering over the water.


The ship fell.

Hulk leapt.

With no force field, the steel walls shredded like paper. Hulk burst through with ease, and in a frenzy began to rip the interior to pieces. Blinded by fury, he didn’t see much except a great web of gears, cogs, and metal tubing. No Leader to account for the voice which had hounded him.

Not that Hulk cared. He destroyed the ship with glee, even as he fell. This time, Hulk landed on his own two feet—


Another small earthquake as Hulk steadied himself. He couldn’t hear the sirens, but he saw them. Hulk knew what that meant. The puny men in blue with guns would try to stop him, but they couldn’t.


Facing the fountain, Hulk started forward. Something moved from the corner of his eye, and he turned. Two women now walked toward him, fear evident on their faces. He recognized them as Betty and Natasha; both friends. He growled, surprised at their presence. He still wanted to smash, but seeing them made him want to smash less.

Hulk miss friends…

He stepped forward. Both women halted. He read the words, Hey, big guy on Natasha’s lips, and smiled.

Big Guy is Hulk.

Tears streamed down Betty’s face. Bruce, you’re bleeding, she said, and although Hulk hated being called Bruce, he hated seeing Betty cry more.

“Betty…Hulk fine…”

Hulk looked down at his bloodstained hands, and groaned. The pain in his head had begun to ebb, but he still felt tired.

Maybe Hulk not fine. Maybe Hulk sleep.

He looked up, saw concern on both women’s faces. Both reached out to him, and, sinking to his knees, Hulk reached out to both. Natasha took his left hand while Betty took his right. Even in gloves and mittens, their hands felt warm and comforting. The urge to smash dissipated, replaced by the urge to rest. Jaw hanging, Hulk looked from Natasha to Betty, and back, reading the conversation on their lips:

Are you okay, Doctor Ross?

Not really, Agent Romanoff.

Well, don’t worry. He’ll rest now.

Hulk’s eyes began to flutter. He felt a chill from deep inside as the last of his rage faded, along with his mighty strength.

Yes…Hulk rest.

Eyes closed, Hulk went slack. His emerald green skin began to fade into a more human hue. His bones began to shorten, his muscles shrank like deflating balloons.

Becoming plain old Doctor Banner, mild-mannered scientist, once again.


When Bruce awoke, he found that part of his hearing had returned; the miracle of his gamma-poisoned condition. He lay on his back, naked, shivering against the cold—and now cracked—concrete. Betty held his hand in both of hers. Her scarf lay bunched beneath his head. Her parka lay over his groin and abdomen. His entire skull throbbed, but, looking into Betty’s worried, tear-stained face, the melancholy scientist forgot his own pain.

“Betty…is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Bruce. Sterns is gone, and no one got hurt. Except you.”

Bruce groaned. In the distance, he heard faint sirens and even fainter voices. All jumbled, frantic. Annoying.

“Is Natasha handling the cops?”



Using Betty’s grip for leverage, Bruce sat up, rolled to one knee, and stood, clutching her parka around his waist. The cold bit into his skin like a barrage of needles. His breath steamed out in monstrous clouds. He shook his head to clear it, then looked around.

My God…

The Quinjet again hovered over the water garden, hatch open, ramp extended. Debris from the ship lay all around, and the walkway looked as if it had been struck by a meteor shower.

Fallout from the Code: Green.

“You’re freezing, Bruce!” Betty said, pulling him close and wrapping herself around him.

Bruce put his free arm around her, smiled as she kissed his cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I guess this was a bad idea…”

“No, Betty. It was good to see you. I just…I hope that now you understand why I have to stay away.”

Head buried against his bare shoulder, Betty gasped. Bruce knew that he’d caused more tears, more heartache, but like any disciplined doctor, he’d done it for her own good.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Hey, Bruce.”

Bruce looked up to see Natasha jogging down the steps beside the fountain. She looked cool, calm, and businesslike; per usual.

“I smoothed everything out with Washington P.D., but we need to get outta here, ASAP, before they change their minds and try to arrest you.”

Bruce looked apologetic and helpless over Betty’s shoulder. He glanced down at Betty, indicating that he needed time. Head cocked, Natasha crossed her arms.

“Two minutes. See ya on the Quinjet.”

Gee, thanks, Natasha…

Bruce sighed as his fellow Avenger strode past him. At the top of the fountain, several wide-eyed policemen stood and watched. A general’s daughter had been put at risk tonight, and they didn’t want their butts caught in the ringer over it.

Natasha’s right. Time to wrap this up.

“I have to go, Betty.”

“No, you don’t,” Betty mewled in between sobs. “You can stay here, with me.

Hugging her tighter, Bruce closed his eyes. He’d hurt Betty enough for one lifetime, and with great personal injury, forced himself to pull away.

“No, Bruce! Don’t!”

“I have to. You know that.”

Betty’s eyes flashed. She groaned, shook her head like a stubborn child. Bruce replied with a firm nod, mouthing, I’m sorry.

And he meant it.

For a moment, Betty refused to let go…then her obstinate expression melted with grief. Bruce stepped back, and her mittened hands came away with her parka. Weeping harder, Betty held the coat in her arms as if it contained a piece of Bruce’s soul. The words I-love-you played on her glistening lips, and if she said it, Bruce didn’t hear.

Thank God.

“Goodbye, Betty.”

Turning, refusing to hurt himself any worse, Bruce Banner limped up the Quinjet’s ramp, naked, shivering, morose, and filled with regret.

Believe me, Betty. This is the last thing I wanted.

“Hello, Doctor Banner,” Jarvis said as the hatch hissed shut.


“How are you?”

Bruce winced. “I’ve felt better, Jarvis.”

“Sorry to hear that, Doctor, although I’m glad to see you back in human form. There’s a change of clothes in your locker.”

“Thanks.” Bruce stumbled as the Quinjet began to rise. “Full speed home, okay?”

“I’m afraid Agent Romanoff has assumed the controls.”


Bruce didn’t have the energy to get dressed. He felt like crying, but didn’t have the energy for that, either. So he sank into Thor’s seat on the starboard side, waiting for the inevitable.

“So,” Natasha called in a coy, sarcastic tone. “Wanna tell me why you snuck out on a solo mission without even telling me where you were going?”

With the weariest of sighs, Bruce leant forward, buried his face in his blood-encrusted hands. He had a lot of explaining to do, and even at top speed, this promised to be a long ride home.

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Appleton’s Abode (Novella Excerpt)

September 28, 2014

Prologue: A Storm In Oak Park


My Dearest Baxter,
Ah, Bax! Ah, my boy! How art thou? Now there’s a good lad! If you are indeed reading these words, then it can only mean that the inevitable has happened and I have passed into the Great Beyond. And not a moment too soon I trust. For the way my life is going at present, I cannot conceive of myself possibly dying from anything other than old age. I have no enemies to speak of, so who would want to kill me? I do not travel much in the conventional way, so the likelihood of an accident is also rather slim. And that is why I place my bet against The Grim Reaper’s that when the bony fellow comes a-knocking, he will stamp my ticket with “NATURAL CAUSES” in bright red ink–
Ah, but was I right lad?
Was I quite right?


Donald Baxter Page looked up from the letter in his hand. Clad in a gray parka and tan mittens, Baxter stood by the front window of his suburbanite home in Oak Park, Illinois. Pain engulfed him as he stared outside. Looking past the oil-mottled driveway, he saw no children in the street. No traffic. Just an empty gulf of black asphalt; gritty and lifeless. Across it, the neighborhood trees shook in February’s brittle wind. Waving at him. Perhaps expressing their condolences.
It didn’t help.
Although Baxter had known about his friend’s death for over a week, he’d never expected a posthumous letter from the man. Never in his wildest dreams. So just imagine Baxter’s initial shock upon finding that missive in his mailbox. Then imagine the high tide of emotion as he’d dashed into his house, ripped open the envelope, and rushed to the window–anxious as hell to read anything his dead friend might have to say.
And, man, what an opening paragraph! Jaunty, effusive, and colloquial; everything the man had been in life. Everything Baxter had loved about him from the moment they’d first met. It read, felt, and sounded as if the man now stood before him, striking up a conversation like the old days.
An effect both comforting and cruel.
Damned cruel.
As the wind gusted, Baxter returned to the letter. Faded black ink on elegant, unlined stationary. Words gleaming from the glare in the window. A ragged sigh escaped Baxter’s lips as his eyes searched for and found the spot where he’d left off. The grieving man cleared his throat, then pressed his lips into a thin line. A single tear fell from his right eye. You were right, he thought. You were right, Corny…
But God damn it, anyway.


Ah, no matter. I am sure that dreadful day is far off. Presently, as I write this confounded letter, it is my 85th birthday and I feel utterly vibrant! Fit as a fiddle! Healthy as a horse! Tip-top condition! Why, I am almost certain that I could even beat you in a footrace, Bax!
At any rate, I know that my inking these thoughts down is long overdue. I should have set myself to it perhaps ten years ago, but even now I don’t feel it overly urgent. I just want to get the blasted thing done for my own peace of mind. I mean, the way I feel just now, I am certain that I shall live to see a full century pass before by aged and sparkling eyes!
But! I must now confess, my boy, that a rather morbid sensibility does accost me from time to time, causing me to wonder just how far I will make it. At 85, I would be a fool not to at least pay lip service to the fact that I might hear that fateful knock upon my door at any moment.
At exactly what age do you suppose I will expire, Bax?


“A hundred-and-one,” Baxter muttered, grinning as another tear fell. “You made it, you old coot. You surely did…”
Outside, the wind settled. The trees ceased waving. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Baxter glanced up again. Gray clouds now mottled the sky like the oil stains on his driveway. A storm descending upon Oak Park. A storm for sure. A nasty one. Both within, and without.
“Yeah…” Baxter said, lowering his eyes, hearing the crinkle of elegant paper in his trembling hands. “A hundred-and-one, Professor Appleton. That’s how far you made it.”


Dear me, lad! I wrote that down as if I were talking directly to you, didn’t I? As if you could somehow respond, when in all actuality that dreaded event must have already occurred. Otherwise, you would not be reading these words right now.
Sorry, Bax. Forgive a foolish octogenarian for lapsing into whimsy from time to time…
And now, dear boy, like Odysseus lurching into Ithaca, I come to my grand destination. The real point of it all!
But first, I must ask that, if you are at present standing, you must seat yourself, Bax. Please. Sit down before you read any further. Take a deep breath–perhaps a stiff belt of your favorite libation, as well–and gird yourself for what may come as quite a shock.
Trust me, lad. It is for the best that I ask you this…


Tearing his gaze from the letter, Baxter sighed and turned to the mauve couch in his living room. If the old man wanted him to sit down, then he’d sit down. Simple as that. Cornelius Appleton might’ve put on theatrical airs from time to time, but when he got serious and changed his tone, all theatricality melted away. That’s when you wanted to shut your mouth, open your eyes, and listen with both ears–
Because you just never knew.
“Okay, Corny. Gimme a second to get comfortable.”
Baxter set the pages on his coffee table, then donned the reading glasses he’d been too manic to remember when he’d rushed inside. Peeling off his mittens, he used them to mop the tears from his face before tossing them down. Next went the parka, revealing a navy blue turtleneck sweater beneath. All set to sink into his couch and continue reading, Baxter paused, turning toward the kitchen.
Perhaps a stiff belt of your favorite libation…
Another sigh. The grandfather clock hadn’t even struck noon yet, but a drink did sound excellent. Even his mouth agreed, beginning to water in anticipation. He liked cognac; his wife liked Schnapps; they both liked spiced rum and Cabernet Sauvignon. Right now, the kitchen had all four. Right now, either of the four sounded good and warm on a cold and miserable day. And with Rita and the twins out running errands, Baxter had the whole house to himself.
Well…tempting, damnit. But, no. It’d be too easy to get started and keep going. Besides, if Rita came home and found him smashed–or even just smelled booze on his breath–she’d come unglued. Then the never-ending questions would begin, followed by her constant bitching and moaning and needling. But Baxter didn’t have a drinking problem. Far from it. Rita just had a habit of seizing upon anything she didn’t like and turning it into a major ordeal. And Baxter knew from experience that Rita didn’t like him drinking without her. Lord knew why, but she didn’t. He also knew that, once enraged, Rita would follow him around the house, unleashing her discontent at every turn. Nowhere would be safe; like living in a war zone.
Then he’d have to hear about it all night.
“Okay, scratch the drink for now, Corny,” Baxter muttered as he sank down, preparing for whatever news lay ahead. “But I’ll be sure to toast your memory after dinner, old friend. I promise.”


Now, if all has gone to plan, buried beneath these pages you should find an exact duplicate of my Last Will & Testament. Knowing you, Bax, you will be sorely tempted to begin reading this document at once–


“Bet your ass!” Baxter erupted, eyes wide, digging into the thin stack of pages. Sure enough, toward the back, he found it:
~The Last Will & Testament Of The Late Professor Cornelius Appleton~
And began reading:
“I, Cornelius Appleton, being of sound mind and body on this day, do hereby decree that the following represents, in toto, my final thoughts, wishes, and words upon this mortal coil…” in a low whisper before regaining his senses–
–and flipping back to the sentence he’d left behind.


–but I must beg of you; please, lad, read the entirety of this letter before doing that! Just exercise a bit of your dogged determination, and I assure you, all will be revealed, Bax.
All will be revealed.
Now, prepare yourself for yet another shock:


“Another shock?” Baxter said, rattling those frail pages. “Another shock?”
The incredulous man leant back, bellowed laughter.
“First, you go and die on me! Granted, you were over a century old, but still, Corny, you caught me by surprise on that one! Then you send me a letter from beyond the grave! Are you kidding me? Only you, Corny! Only you could, and only you would do something like that to a person! Then you tell me you’ve sent me a copy of your fucking will? And now I suppose you’re finally gonna tell me what this is all about, huh?
“Well, go right ahead, Pop! Lay it on me, Daddy-O!”
Teeth grit, hands clenched around the pages, Baxter snickered to keep from screaming.


Simply put, Bax, I’m leaving it all to you.


Leaping to his feet, Baxter’s jaw dropped. He looked like a game show contestant who’d won the grand prize. And in a very real sense, he had.
“Oh, no! No way, Corny!” Baxter gasped between sobs and barks of near-hysterical laughter. “This…this has gotta be a joke, right? I mean, you can’t…you can’t do this to me, Corny!”


That is right, my dear boy! I’m leaving the house, the land, the library, and all of the trinkets I have amassed over this past century (of course!) all to you! Ah, but more importantly–most important of all–I am bequeathing unto you all of the magic that is “Professor Appleton’ s Whimsical Abode Of Curiosities!”
Every. Thing.
The entire legacy.
The whole ball of wax, Bax!


Still clutching the letter and will, Baxter turned, right hand running through his thick brown forelocks. Now he faced the kitchen. Sweat stood out on his brow. More tears slipped from his eyes as his troubled gaze fell upon the pantry door.
Perhaps a stiff belt of your favorite libation…
Cognac. Schnapps. Spiced rum. Cabernet Sauvignon. Each of them beckoned, but one in particular sounded perfect:
Screw Rita! Baxter decided, heading straight for the unopened bottle of Bacardi Oakheart.


Yes, sir! That is how I want it, and therefore, how it must be. For you, Bax, have been like a son to me all these years. In fact, you are the closest thing I have, and shall ever have, to a son. Surely, you can see that.


“Sure,” Baxter said, shaking his head. “Like a son. Even though I haven’t been back to the Appleton Woods in almost twenty years…”
Choking back more tears, the unnerved man retrieved a short glass from the cupboard with his shaky right hand…and almost dropped it.
“Haven’t written you a letter in ten years…”
Baxter set Professor Appleton’s letter aside and gripped the rum with both shaky hands. Though his right hand slipped on the first attempt, the cap came loose with little effort on the second.
Thank God.
“Haven’t even called you in over five years, Corny…”


’Tis of no matter to me that we haven’t stayed in close contact as of late, either. I am a grown and elderly man. You are a grown and stately man with a wife and children. It is thus only natural that we should drift further and further apart in this vast ocean we call life. As such, I will not tolerate any self-deprecating nonsense from you! You are worthy of this gift, dear boy. Most worthy!
So be sure to do me the courtesy of honoring one of my last requests, and please refrain from marveling at the pitiful generosity of my will.


Two large ice cubes now sat in the short glass, waiting to be bathed in alcohol.
“Aw, hell,” Baxter said, grimacing at the letter as he tipped his bottle. “I wouldn’t even presume to question your infinite wisdom, sir.”


I am sure I needn’t remind you of the boon you once did for me, Bax. But since these are my last words, I think it would be rather uncouth to pass over this final opportunity to give hearty thanks and appreciation to you, my talented friend. I think you would agree; ’tis not every day that someone writes an award winning play about your life, now is it?


“Award winning?” Baxter wheezed, half choking as a healthy dose of rum warmed his throat. “Award winning, did ya say? Right, Corny. The Life and Times Of Professor Appleton didn’t impress hardly anybody except you and a few small theater companies in L.A.”
He paused, letting the alcohol soak into his gut.
“Okay…maybe a few small theater companies in L.A. and Chicago. And Portland. And Seattle. One, that I know of, in New York…”
Baxter took another sip, coughed, shook his head.
“Still…I don’t think Shakespeare’s rollin’ over in his grave, Corny. Besides, that was…Christ, twenty years ago.”


And don’t kid yourself, lad; your other plays were every bit as brilliant. More so, even. ’Tis a shame that they were not recognized as such. But no matter. I have the utmost faith in not only your writing abilities, but in you as a person. I feel very strongly that one day you will write a fabulous novel that both young and old can enjoy. Then your talent will be fully recognized.


“HA! A novel, huh? That’s a laugh…”
Frowning, Baxter drained the glass. His belly now felt like a furnace; his gullet, a chimney. But already the tears had stopped, and a pleasant fog had settled in. For some men, alcohol just intensifies whatever emotions may be fueling their desire to drink. For Donald Baxter Page, however, it acts as a barrier between mind and heart, dulling–even numbing–the pain.
A very good thing, indeed.
“Ah…maybe several years ago, Corny. Maybe. But now, at forty-one, with a full time job, two teenage daughters, and an ever-cranky wife? The Great American Novel? No way. Ain’t happenin’, sir. I, uh…I just don’t have the time.”
A lie. Baxter knew it; knew that Professor Appleton wouldn’t buy it, either. In fact, no one would except Rita, who’d never cared for his writing in the first place.
“Oh, well,” Baxter moaned, reaching for the bottle. “At least the old man died believing in me and my work, eh?”


Now, I don’t mean to write my very own novel with these pages, Bax, but before I conclude this document, I have a few more things to discuss. Things of the utmost importance, I assure you. They pertain to the property I am bequeathing unto you, so please pay close attention. The orchard, the house itself, the library, and the stuffed animal zoo; all of them come with their own special set of instructions that absolutely must be followed, especially by he who owns them.
Understand, to shirk this responsibility would be dangerous to both you and your family, Bax. So be sure not to rush through or merely skim over these next few paragraphs. Read them only when you know you will not be disturbed. Just sit down, relax, and take your sweet time–


But for Baxter, time had run out.
The familiar throb and thrum of the Page family minivan jerked his attention from the letter. Shit! he thought, looking up. They’re home already?
With haste, Baxter raised his glass in a half-assed salute to his deceased friend, tipped it back, and swallowed the rum. The furnace within roared as he turned, again setting the papers aside. He rinsed the glass with cold water, then placed it back on the shelf. Then the incriminating bottle of Bacardi returned to the pantry with a dull thunk!
“There, now! All ready for company!”
The rattle of loose pages filled the kitchen as Baxter gathered the letter and will. Catching a glimpse of Rita and the twins lifting grocery bags from the minivan, the panicked and disheveled man hurried into the front room and plopped onto the sofa. For a moment, Baxter considered rushing outside to help–
But, no. That’d just make Rita suspicious. Better to sit here and let her discover me on her own…
Face flushed and wet, nose running, Baxter knew he looked both upset and guilty–which Rita would seize upon as soon as she walked through the door–but hoped it would add to the effect when he explained. He didn’t know how she’d take it, but more than ever, he needed her sympathy; needed his wife’s loving support.
For a change.
Thus, heeding Professor Cornelius Appleton’s advice, Baxter refused to read any further. Instead, he returned to the beginning of the letter, and sat hunched over the pages with a look of intense concentration. Awaiting the moment when the door opened, Rita emerged from the cold, and the real storm began.

“Appleton’s Abode” is available in digital and paperback here:

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